Stolen
by After The Fire
Summary: You saw me before I saw you. You had this look in your eyes, like you wanted something from me. Like you had wanted it for a long time. You drew me towards you, and you stole me away.


AN: Woo! Stolen is back! After those scary couple of days when someone decided to flag it down.  
>I'm going to find you, flagger. And rip your gosh darn eyeballs out with my fork.<br>On a happier note, Stolen is improved, more detailed, and I've made Ulquiorra take her to a different place seeming as I lost it in Alaska, Haha :]

To the eighty-two PM'ers, I will get to you eventually about this whole thing, but basically shit has ensued, I'm gonna fix it, and you can live your life.  
>Not only has Stolen come back, but so will three other fics that I wrote within the span of the two days in which I almost killed myself from the horror of having no stories.<p>

On a even happier note than that. If you have PM'd me then you know whats happening with my secret present. And you will recieve that soon via EMAIL :]  
>You guys are super, dooper supportive and I love you for it. <p>

* * *

><p>You saw me before I saw you. In the airport, that day in august. You had this look in your eyes, like you wanted something from me, like you had wanted it a long time. No one had ever looked at me that way before, at least, not with such intensity. It unsettled me, surprised me. Those emerald eyes staring back at me as though it was I alone who could warm them up. From that look alone I was intrigued. They were so powerful, so beautiful, I couldn't bare to look away.<p>

But you broke the gaze before I did, you blinked quickly when you saw me staring back, and turned away, as if you were nervous, as if you had felt guilty because you'd just been checking out some random girl at an airport. But I wasn't random was I? And it was a good act, I fell for it. It's funny, but I always thought I could trust green eyes. I thought they were safe somehow. Only the villains have dark eyes… the Grim Reaper, the Joker, zombies… all dark.

Seeing you… I guess it was a welcome diversion, as I had been fighting with my parents only moments before. Mum hadn't been happy about my skimpy top, and dad was just grumpy from the lack of sleep. But that was how you planned it, wasn't it? By waiting until my parents had a go at me before you approached. I knew, even then, that you had been watching me. There was a strange sort of familiarity about you, I had seen you before… somewhere… but who were you? My eyes kept flitting back to your face.

You'd been with me since London. I'd seen you in the check-in-line with a small carry-on bag. I'd seen you on the plane, and now, here you were, in Bangkok airport, sitting in the cafe where I had just arrived. I ordered my coffee and waited for it to be made. I remember fumbling with my money as the cashier brought my order to me. I didn't look back, but I knew you were still watching; I could feel it. The tiny hairs on my neck bristled every time you blinked.

The cashier held onto the coffee cup until I had my money ready. Kenny, his name badge said; I can remember him almost as clear as day. He looked tired from his long shift at the coffee shop, and his light blond hair was falling over his face. He brushed his hair back with his free hand until he spoke, "We don't take British coins." He said, sounding slightly aggravated at my incompetence. "Don't you have a note?"

I shook my head, feeling slightly embarrassed that I had just wasted his time, "I left it in London." I said apologetically, hoping he would take pity upon me and hand me the coffee regardless.

But he didn't. Kenny shook his head and pulled the coffee back towards him, a look of exasperation clear on his face. I could only imagine how mad he was that I was keeping everyone from being served. "There's a cash machine next to Duty Free"

Kenny looked up at someone who had moved behind me. I turned around I felt someone move up behind me. I turned.

"Let me buy it," You said. Your voice was low and soft, like it was only meant for me, and your accent was strange. The short-sleeved shit you were wearing smelt of firewood, and there was a small scar at the edge of your pale cheek. Your eyes were too intense to stare into for long.  
>You already had an accepted foreign note ready and gave gave me a pressed smile – innocent enough to make me trust you. Just a generous man with money to spare, I reassured myself. You handed the money to Kenny and retrieved the cup. I don't think I said thank you… Sorry about that.<p>

You took the drink from Kenny's small hand. The coffee cup bent a little as you grabbed it. You moved over to the condiments so that we weren't in the customers way, "One sugar? Two?" You asked in your deep voice, reaching over to grab the thin satchels.

I nodded; too flustered by you being there, talking to me, to do anything else. I went to retrieve the sugars from you, in an attempt to have my own control over my drink, but you stopped me, "Don't worry, I'll do it. You sit down." You gestured to where you'd been sitting; at a table between the fake palm trees, over by the window.

I hesitated. But you had anticipated I would. You touched me gently on the shoulder, your hand warm through my top. My heart beat quickened, "It's OK, I don't bite," You said softly. He jerked his head towards the seating area "There's no other tables anyway, not unless you want to sit with the Addams family over there."

I followed your gaze to the empty chairs next to a large family. Two of the smaller kids were crawling over the table, the parents arguing across them. I wonder now what would have happened if I had sat next to them? Wondered if we would have talked about kids' holidays and milkshakes before I returned to my parents. I looked up at your face, your expression victimized. But I could see that the he deep green of your eyes had secrets. I wanted them.

"I only just escaped my family," I said in a bitter tone, "I don't want another yet."

"Nice work." You winked. "One sugar it is then"

You guided me towards where you'd been sitting. Other customers were sitting near your small table, making me feel more confident to approach it. It took me ten steps to get there. I walked in a kind of daze and sat in the chair facing the window. I watched you take the drink to the stand and lift the lid off. I saw you pour the sugar in, that shaggy, black hair falling over your eyes as you bent your head.

I think I must have looked away for a moment, to watch the planes taking off behind the glass. There was a jumbo jet teetering on its back wheels, black fumes hanging in the air behind. And another was lining up to go. Your hands must have been quick, tipping it in. Did you use any kind of distraction technique, I wonder, or was nobody looking anyway? It was some kind of powder I suppose, though not much of it. Perhaps it looked like Sugar; It didn't taste any different.

I turned to see you walking back, smoothly avoiding all the coffee-carrying passengers who stepped out in front of you. You didn't look at any of them. Only me. Perhaps that's why nobody else seemed to notice. You moved too much like a hunter, padding silently next to the row of plastic pot plants as you made your line towards me.

You put two coffees on the table and pushed one in my direction, ignoring the other. You picked up a teaspoon and twirled it idly around your fingers, spinning it around your thumb and then catching it again. I looked at your face. You were beautiful in a damaged sort of way. Your emerald eyes, although big, had the look of sadness in them. I had the strangest temptation to hug you, but you were older than I'd realized, Too old for me to be sitting there with you really. Early twenties probably, maybe more.

From a distance, when I'd seen you at the check line, your body looked thin and small, like all the other eighteen-year olds at my school, but up close, really looking, I could see that your arms were hard, and pale, which clashed brilliantly against your shaggy black hair and emerald eyes. I stared at your arms longer than I should have, taking in the curves of your muscles. I looked away.

"I'm Ulquiorra," You said, your eyes darting away, then back again, before you reached your hand towards me. Your fingers were warm and soft on the back of my hand as you took it and held onto it, but you didn't shake it. You raised a thick eyebrow, and I realised what you wanted.

"Orihime," I said nervously, before I really meant to. I enjoyed the touch of your fingertips against the back of my hand. You nodded as though you already knew, but of course, I suppose you already did.

"Where are your parents?" You asked curiously, as if you knew that I was much too young to be travelling alone.

"They've already at the gate, they're waiting for me there." I felt nervous sitting with you – my mind began to reminisce of all the times my mother had warned me not to talk to strangers. I couldn't imagine you being dangerous, your expression was much too damaged to think of such a thing, but I still didn't feel comfortable, "I said I wouldn't be long – just getting a coffee."

One corner of your mouth turned up, and you gave a short chuckle. I can only imagine now what you were thinking. How I would be much longer than I intended. "When does the flight leave?"

"In about an hour? I should probably be heading back soon, in fact." But I didn't move. I didn't want to. Every inch of my body was drawn to you, and all I could think about was those damn fingers brushing against the back of my hand.

"Where is it going?" You asked softly, innocently. I felt compelled to tell you.

"Vietnam." You looked impressed at this, and I smiled at you, "My mum goes all the time," I added. "She's a curator – kind of like an artist who collects instead of paints."  
>I don't know why I felt I had to explain. Just habit, I guess, from all the kids at school who ask but don't know anything.<p>

"Your father?"

"He works in the city – stockbroker."

"Suited and booted then."

"Something like that. Pretty boring, looking after other people's money… not that he thinks so."

I could feel myself starting to babble, so I took a sip of coffee to shut me up. As I drank, I watched a small trickle of sweat travel down your hairline. You couldn't have been hot however; the air conditioner was beating directly onto us. Your eyes were flicking nervously all over the place, not always being able to meet my gaze. That edginess made you seem shy; made me like you even more. But there was still something about you, hovering in my memory.

"So," You murmured. "What is it you want to do then? Get a job like your father? Travel like you mother?"

I shrugged. "That's what they would like. I don't know. Nothing really seems right."

"Not… meaningful enough?" You finished for me, and I smiled again at how well you understood.

"Yeah, I mean, they just collect stuff. Dad collects people's money and Mum collects people's drawings. What do they really do that's theirs?"

I looked away. I hated talking about my parent's work. We'd been talking about it on the flight from London; Mum going on and on about the paintings she wanted to buy in Vietnam. Right then it was the last thing I wanted to discuss. You half laughed at me again, your voice breathy. The teaspoon was balancing perfectly on your thumb, hanging like magic. I was still wondering whether I should be there, sitting with you. But it was weird, you know, it felt like I could tell you anything. I probably would have too, if my throat hadn't been so tense.

Often I wish it had ended just then, with your smile and my nerves bundled up tight. I glanced around, checking to see whether my parents had come looking for me, although I knew they wouldn't. They would be happy enough waiting at the gate and reading the selection of journals they'd brought, trying to look intelligent. Besides, Mum wouldn't want to admit defeat over out clothes argument by coming to find me. But I glanced around anyway. There was a swarm of nameless faces, slowly being drawn towards the drinks counter. People, people everywhere. The grind and hum of the coffee machine, the squeal of small children, and the smell of fire wood coming off your chequered shirt. I took another sip of my coffee.

"What does your mother collect?" You asked, your soft voice grabbing my attention back again. You looked at me expectantly.

"Colours mostly. Paintings of buildings. Shapes. Do you know Rothko? Mark Rothko?"

You frowned

"Well, that kind of stuff. I think it's pretty pretentious. All those endless squares." I was babbling again. I paused to look at your hand. It was still on top of mine. Should it be there? Were you trying to pick me up? No one at school had ever done it like that. As I looked, you lifted your hand up quickly, as if you'd only just realized it was there too.

"Sorry." You shrugged, but there was a twinkle in your eye that made me smile back. "I guess I'm a little… tense."

You put your hand down again, next to mine this time, only centimetres away. I could move my little finger across to touch it. "What do you do?" I asked "You're not in school then?"

I winced as I said it. We both knew how stupid it sounded. You were obviously older than any other boy I had talked to like this, you had grown into you're body and you were much more confident than the awkward boys at school.

You sighed and sat back. "You could say what I do is a form of art." You said mysteriously, and I could tell by your expression that you weren't going to tell me anymore. Though how the words were left hanging made me nervous.

Still, I nodded as if I understood. I wanted to ask you what you were doing here… with me – if I had seen you before. I wanted to know why you were interested. I wasn't an idiot, it was easy to see how much younger I was than you. But I didn't ask. I was nervous I guess, not wanting you to be dodge in anyway. And I suppose it made me feel grown up, sitting there with the most handsome an in the café, drinking a coffee you had just bought for me. Maybe I didn't look that young at all, I thought, even though the only make-up I wore was lip-gloss. Maybe you just looked old for your age. As you glances out the window, I untucked the bit of hair from behind my ear and let it fall over my face. I bit my lips to make them redder.

"I've never been to Vietnam," You said eventually.

"Or me. I'd rather go to Japan."

Your fingers twitched then as you glanced at me, your eyes darting to the hair I'd just released. After a moment you leant across the table to retuck it behind my ear. You hesitated.

"Sorry, I…" You murmured, unable to finish, your cheeks reddening a little. Your fingers lingered against my temple. I could feel the softness of their tips. My ear went hot as you brushed against it. Then your fingers moved down to my chin. You pushed it up with your thumb to look at me, almost like you were studying me in the artificial lights above my head. And, I mean you really looked at me… with eyes like two stars.

You trapped me there like that, kept me stuck to that spot of Bangkok airport as though I was something small drawn to the light. And I had wings fluttering away inside me alright. Big, fat, moth wings. You trapped me easily, drew me towards you like I was already in the net.

"Wouldn't you rather go to America?" You said.

I laughed a little; the way you'd said it sounded so serious. You moved your fingers away immediately.

"Sure," I shrugged, a little breathless. "Everyone wants to go there."

You were quiet then, looking down. I shook my head, still feeling your touch on the back of my hand. I wanted you to keep talking.

"Are you American?" I was puzzled by your accent. You didn't sound like all those actors in the tv shows. Sometimes you sounded British. Sometimes it sounded as if you came from nowhere at all. I waited, but you didn't answer. So I leant over and prodded your arm.

"Ulquiorra?" I said, trying out your name, liking the way it sounded. "So what's it like anyway? America?"

You smirked then, and your whole face changed with it. It was a look that would have made me fall to the ground if I hadn't already been seated.

"You'll find out,"


End file.
